Page 44 of Always a Chance
Johnny followed me into the kitchen, where we found my dad standing at the counter, knife in hand and onions on the cutting board in front of him. I hadn’t seen him cook since I arrived, unless I counted frozen meals.
“What’s going on?” I set my purse on a chair.
Dad turned, and I almost laughed at the tears in his eyes. “These dang onions are strong.”
“Sure, Dad. It’s the onions.”
His lips twitched at the sarcasm in my voice, and I considered it a win. When I peeked around him, I noticed he’d only gotten a small part of the onion cut. “What are you making?”
“Your mother’s poppy seed dressing.” He focused back on the onion, not looking at me. “I thought we could do with some fried chicken tonight.”
Johnny and I shared a look. This was a familiar scene in my house from long ago. My dad trying to cook because he thought we deserved home-cooked meals and us bailing him out.
“My closet,” I said.
Johnny nodded. “On it.” He hurried toward my room, and I waited, not knowing what to say to the man in front of me.
“I’m sure you have better things to do than cooking.” Dad’s hand sat frozen on the knife.
I pried it out of his fingers. “It’s fine.” He let me take it, and I got to work dicing the onion much more finely than he’d been doing.
Johnny returned a moment later, an apron in each hand. He slipped one of them over my head and tied it around my back before putting his own on. We’d originally bought these when we were fourteen as a joke, but we’d worn them more often than we’d admit.
Johnny edged my dad out of the way. “What can I do?”
“Start mixing the dry stuff for the chicken,” I said.
He nodded, reaching up into the spice cabinet. “Gianna will be out in a bit.”
“Does she need help?” Dad asked, looking eager to get out of here.
“I helped her.” Johnny reached behind him for a bowl.
My dad couldn’t run from my presence this time. “Dad, why don’t you start mixing up the dressing?”
He seemed relieved to have a task, someone telling him what to do.
Johnny pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Anyone in the mood for a little Train?”
Dad and I both groaned simultaneously. We loved Train, but Johnny went through a phase of listening to them obsessively, and none of us would ever recover.
Yet, when “Superman” came on, neither of us could help singing along. The tension in the kitchen eased away for the first time since I arrived last week. These two men I’d barely spoken to in ten years worked side by side with me as if we’d never missed a beat.
Gianna appeared as we started heating up the oil, and the music had turned to another band on Johnny’s playlist. “Did I miss Train?” she asked.
“I’m sure Johnny has plenty more of their songs on his playlist.” I narrowed my eyes at Johnny.
Gianna pursed her lips. “The entire playlist should be them.”
“Yes.” Johnny high-fived her.
“What have you done to my sister?” I scrubbed chicken juice off my hands in the sink.
“Obviously I need to put an end to their friendship.” Dad eyed Johnny like he’d betrayed him. “I should have paid more attention.”
Just to spite us, Johnny turned on “Drops of Jupiter.” And we sang every word.
The three of us navigated around each other in the kitchen like a well-choreographed dance we’d never forget, while Gianna chatted easily from her spot nearby.
